


Custom Order To Go

by Anonymous



Category: Fake News FPF
Genre: Community: newskink-meme, Dom/sub Play, M/M, Multi, Older Man/Younger Man, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 14:46:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Wyatt shrugged, trying to look like he hung out with bondage waiters all the time.</em>
</p><p>An everything-but-the-porn fill inspired by the newskink prompt: "Stephen" had a long-time, dearly held fantasy of being spit-roasted. How does Jon help make it come true? (Answer: invite Wyatt to the local BDSM club and proposition him.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Custom Order To Go

Over the past couple years, Wyatt kinda figured he'd been doing pretty well for himself. Steady job, good pay, the fame bracket Hodgman called "minor television personality" where you were known well enough to get fist-bumped on the street but not enough for the tabloids to keep track of your girlfriends...he really couldn't complain.

Now, at the bar of an invite-only, top-floor establishment, he was starting to feel a new appreciation for just how many rungs down the ladder he still was.

He'd counted at least two B-list-or-above movie stars, one of whom was definitely wearing nothing but leather. There was a lady at the table near the fountain who looked an awful lot like his Congresswoman. The average tabloid reporter would give their right arm to sit where he was for five minutes, let alone behind one of the wide swinging doors that let slip applause and/or cries of pain whenever a scantily-clad waiter bustled through. If it weren't for Jon and Colbert, Wyatt never would've known the place existed.

Not like there was any pressure in that, or anything.

Wyatt was halfway through a pint, and starting to seriously worry that he'd overdressed or underdressed or both, when he caught sight of a couple familiar figures moving over by the entrance. To his relief, Jon was in the usual grey-on-grey with slacks, the nearly-black suit jacket his only concession to formality. Colbert wore a cardigan over a collared shirt, nothing visibly kinky, not even an actual collar. At least, not that Wyatt could see.

As he was debating whether to wave or send one of the serving staff their way, Colbert caught sight of him and tugged on Jon's sleeve.

"Wyatt!" exclaimed Jon once he was in fist-bumping range. "Glad you made it. I hope you haven't been waiting too long."

"Don't sweat it. I got here early." Wyatt nodded to Colbert, who was keeping a half step behind Jon; he nodded back. "So, uh, what's the plan?"

"We get some drinks, we hit up a private room, we talk. Maybe go farther here, maybe take this home, depending on where you're most comfortable and how much you like having access to a jacuzzi." Jon flagged down a bartender, then turned to Colbert. "Know what you want, babe?"

"Anything with the kind of alcohol content that would stun a mid-sized bird," said Colbert promptly. "Plus a tiny umbrella, to deliver the finishing stab once it's down."

"One bird-murdering cocktail for Stephen, the usual for me," Jon told the woman behind the bar. She _did_ have a collar, a thick leather strap around her throat, and her toned arms showed off what looked like rope marks. Gesturing toward Wyatt's glass, Jon added, "Another one of these?"

"It's just Coke," admitted Wyatt. "I could go for something stronger. It's okay, I got it." He fumbled for his wallet.

"I insist." Jon slid a credit card across the bar. "You're doing us a favor, here. And what do we do when somebody does us a favor...?" He raised his eyebrows expectantly at Colbert.

"Um..." Colbert's face screwed up with concentration. "Buy them off with SuperPAC money?"

Jon sighed. "Close enough."

 

(=)

 

The private room was about the size of Wyatt's first apartment. Soft lighting, rich red walls, a pole in one corner and some kind of sex swing folded up against the wall, and Jon hadn't been kidding about the (currently powered-down) jacuzzi. At least the couches looked normal. Jon took one, Stephen scooted up next to him almost close enough for it to be snuggling by default, and Wyatt sat across from them, drink in hand.

"I was thinking this would be a good neutral place to talk things out without worrying about getting photographed," said Jon, somewhat sheepishly. "I forgot that not everyone's had a chance to get used to the bondage waiters."

Wyatt shrugged, trying to look like he hung out with bondage waiters all the time. The fact that his default expression was "relaxed and/or vaguely stoned" worked in his favor for once. "It's cool. They seem pretty chill. So, about this...threesome?"

"Threesome," agreed Jon. Colbert was deeply absorbed in fiddling with the tiny umbrella; Jon stilled him with a touch on his arm. "You want to explain the setup?"

Colbert shook off the cloud of withdrawn sulkiness, squaring his shoulders and arching his eyebrows. "It would be both of you fucking me," he said briskly. "One of you at each end. You can choose which end," he added to Wyatt, with an air of great generosity.

Wyatt considered. "If I don't care, do you have a preference?"

Colbert (and it was probably time to start thinking of him as Stephen, now that the man had explicitly invited Wyatt to come in him wherever) blushed and dropped his eyes. Jon came to the rescue. "That sort of depends on which one of us is bigger," he admitted. "And, listen, if you have any particular kinks, or maybe something you want to field-test...we'll try to be accommodating. Just let us know."

Wyatt took a moment to look the two over afresh. Jon had his subtle, disarming charm turned up to eleven, though it seemed to be as much for Stephen's benefit as their guest's. Stephen himself was taut as a drum, gaze low and whole face blushed a couple shades darker than his restless hands, looking like he was struggling not to either flee the building or leap on Jon right there. No wonder Jon was down with filling this fantasy, if just planning it out got Stephen this turned on.

"Can I ask a question?" asked Wyatt.

Jon downed a quick gulp of his drink and set it aside. "Sure. Anything you like."

"Why me? I mean, of all the people you could've hit up for this...." When Jon fidgeted for the first time, Wyatt added, "Look, if it's a race thing, just be up front about it, okay?"

Jon, appropriately enough, blanched. (Larry called the expression his guilty-white-liberal-chipmunk face.) "What? No! It's not...god, no."

"Hang on." Anticipation replaced with confusion, Stephen looked from Wyatt to Jon and back again, blinking wide dark eyes. "Is he--? I don't see race. Are you not white?"

"I'm the one Jon sent to do the report on Rick Perry's family ranch," Wyatt reminded him.

"Ah," said Stephen knowingly. "Black, then."

Jon choked his way through a meaningful cough. With some effort Stephen reined himself in, though he twisted his mouth into such a pout that Jon sighed. "Fine, you can tell him."

The pout blossomed into a smirk. " _I'm_ not picky," said Stephen, sounding enormously pleased with himself over that fact. "If Jon wasn't into this, there are plenty of couples here who'd be thrilled to borrow me for a night. And since he is, any reasonably attractive third who knows his way around a hot piece of ass would be fine with me. But _Jon_ has the kind of finicky taste that means he'd wind up with performance issues if we invited just anybody." He sat back, triumphant. "We propositioned you because Jon _likes_ you."

It was Jon's turn to look anywhere but at Wyatt, rubbing the back of his neck and blushing like a teenager. It was bizarrely cute. Wyatt grinned.

Stephen hummed in a mischievous tone and nudged Jon's side with his elbow to draw his attention. Jon returned Wyatt's smile before elbowing Stephen in return. "How do you manage to make me feel embarrassed for _not_ being a slut?" he said, not without affection.

"You think he's _cu-ute_ ," singsonged Stephen, sidling up against Jon's shoulder. "You can't _wait_ to watch his face while I do dirty, dirty things to him."

Something about their dynamic that had been nagging at Wyatt all evening snapped into focus. "Hey, are you guys in scene mode right now?" he asked, addressing Jon with no small spark of interest. "Is he not allowed to talk unless you ask him something?"

The friendly scuffle quieted, leaving both their postures loose and relaxed; Stephen clung to Jon's shoulder, half-hiding behind it. Jon patted his wrist and nodded. "Nice catch. There are, ah, a couple other things involved too. I can give him orders if you want. Any requests?"

Wyatt leaned forward on his elbows, chin resting on his hand. "Can I watch you two make out for a bit?"

Jon turned to Stephen. "You heard the man."

Stephen pulled his knees underneath him and straightened up to melt into the kiss from above. Even posed with an advantage of several inches over Jon, he couldn't be mistaken for the one in charge: Wyatt got the distinct impression that he was wholly anchored by Jon's mouth and the hand on his hips.

His open palm splayed across Jon's chest, thumb catching in the collar of the topmost grey shirt and fingers nuzzling their way beneath the dark lapels. Every time Jon's tongue slipped out of his mouth to better shift position, Stephen gasped soft desperate noises and kneaded at the monochrome fabric.

Jon's free hand crept up to grip Stephen's chin, tilting him away to paint kisses down the curve of his neck. As Stephen's gaze slid to lock with Wyatt's, his breathing got rougher, eyes dark and face slack, drugged with wanting.

"Okay, I am _so_ not going to regret this," said Wyatt, half to himself.

The sharp catch of breath from the other couch sounded like Jon's this time.

Wyatt felt a sudden need to adjust the position of his legs. "Hey, uh, send him over here?"

It didn't come out with the easy authority Jon had managed, much less anything like the vague image of a BDSM dungeon master in Wyatt's head. Mostly it was just sort of casual. Somehow that fit the vibe of the scene as neatly as if they'd planned it: him and Jon, just two regular guys, and Stephen a toy to be tossed between them as nonchalantly as a Frisbee.

In the shadow of Stephen's jaw, Jon beamed approvingly at Wyatt. "All yours," he said, urging Stephen along with a light slap on the rear.

Stephen ended up with one knee up on the cushions, straddling Wyatt's thigh. "I--" He turned briefly to Jon for permission; Jon nodded. "I don't see race," he reminded Wyatt, "but I do see beards, and yours is really, truly magnificent. Can I...?"

"...mess with it?" finished Wyatt with a slow smile. "Sure. Go ahead."

Nimble hands cupped his bristly jaw, clinging to him for a steady frame of reference as Stephen dropped open-mouthed kisses on and around his lips.

Remembering Jon's default position, Wyatt rested his hands on Stephen's hips, then slid them lower -- aww yeah -- and squeezed. Stephen's body jerked with a yelp, half-tented trousers brushing his stomach. Even where his beard was thickest, Wyatt could feel hot breath panted against his skin.

For a second he couldn't figure it out when Stephen pulled away, until he spotted Jon's hand curled across the back of Stephen's neck. He hadn't even noticed the man get up.

"Dibs on his mouth," said Wyatt faintly.

Stephen moaned, eyelashes fluttering. It was an impressive show of self-control, or at least control, that he didn't grind against Wyatt outright. "God, I hope the carpet tastes like the drapes."

Jon's own hard-won composure barely extended to the trembling muscles at the corners of his mouth, to the free hand wringing the edge of his jacket. "Did I say you could talk, babe? Wyatt, you never said...would you like this order for here, or to go?"

Good question. On the one hand, jacuzzi. On the other hand, strangers doing mysterious unspeakable things a few rooms over, which kind of wrecked the cutely intimate vibe they had going. On top of that, Wyatt was kind of proud of himself for being able to weigh choices at all right now, and wanted to drag this heady distraction out as long as possible.

Plus: cuddling. Even if it was probably going to come out way Stephen-centric, he definitely wanted the option of sticking around for the cuddling.

A gentle nudge to the center of Stephen's chest sent him stumbling out of Wyatt's lap. Getting to his feet, Wyatt planted himself comfortably inside Jon's personal space. "I could go for being invited home."

Jon smiled. Wyatt half-grinned. There were a few long seconds of awkward facial twitches as each tried to subtly cue the other into making the first move.

Cupping his hands around his mouth, Stephen stage-whispered, "Just kiss already!"

"I think I'll forgive him that one," said Jon wryly, and rose up on his toes to let Wyatt catch his mouth.

 

(=)

 

After, Stephen lay exhausted with his head in the crook of Wyatt's hip while Jon made sure he hadn't torn anything...then crawled up Wyatt's body to rub weakly against his chin like an affectionate cat.

"Ungrateful," chided Jon, tugging one of the sheets up to cover Stephen's and Wyatt's tangled legs. "Years of taking care of you, and you forget it all the second a man with a nice beard comes along."

Stephen hmphed into the sweaty curve of Wyatt's neck. Wyatt adjusted the position of his shoulders against the headboard for optimum cuddling support. "Hey, you had a nice beard for a while," he pointed out.

"I had a beard that made me look like my own evil twin," corrected Jon, retrieving a bathrobe from the floor and shrugging it on. "And the full-face version made me look like my childhood rabbi. Don't!" He held up a hand to cut off any further protest. "Spare me your sympathy. I have accepted that it is my destiny to go beardless."

"Duly noted." Wyatt nuzzled Stephen's forehead, and felt an appreciative twinge at the older man's pleased sigh. "Uh, speaking of stuff to get sympathetic about, should I even ask you guys about refractory periods, or...?"

Stephen caught his breath. Jon looked horrified. "What, _now?_ " he all but pleaded.

"No, not yet. But gimme ten minutes."

That earned him a petulant little shove from Stephen. Jon groaned, eyes rolling. "This is what we get for banging thirtysomethings." He squeezed Stephen's shoulder. "You up for it, babe?"

"I already blew him tonight," grumbled Stephen. "You do it."

"Hey, now. If you've got the energy to be mouthy...."

"Listen," said Wyatt, "if you guys are all blowjobbed out, I'm totally cool with jerking off while getting made out with. Or while watching you two make out," he added with a nod to Jon, who had moved on to massaging Stephen's back with the pads of his fingers. "Don't want to make you think I'm trying to horn in on your territory, here."

Jon stretched just far enough to plant a kiss on the corner of Wyatt's mouth. "You're welcome to horn in on us any time."

"Except right after you _just did_ ," put in Stephen. "Because that's just showing off."

"Two strikes," said Jon. To Wyatt, he explained, "That's usually the point when I gag him. Now, where did I put the...?" A scrap of purple cloth fell out of his sleeve. "Oh, hey, there we go. You want to do the honors?"

Reluctantly, Stephen pulled away from Wyatt's shoulder. He made a show of holding still and obedient as far as the man behind him was concerned, though his eyes were begging Wyatt for mercy all the while.

"You're fine, be cool," soothed Wyatt, knotting the gag at the back of Stephen's head before patting him on the cheek. "I'll untie it if you can be good for the next eight minutes."


End file.
